


The Kick Without the Burn

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-25
Updated: 2007-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:29:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a brilliant idea. Sam has a very bad feeling about this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kick Without the Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Timeframe: late season 1; pre-Dead Man's Blood.  
> 
> 
> a/n: Written for [](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/profile)[**deirdre_c**](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/) 's birthday. This fic has been certified 99.5% angst-free. Due to the nature of the ingredients, trace amounts of angst may occur. Grade A beta reading from [](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/profile)[**marinarusalka**](http://marinarusalka.livejournal.com/).

Dean was wearing _that_ smile, the one that meant illegal activities, a high likelihood of Sam getting splattered with monster gunk, and a fifty percent chance of some kind of explosives.

"No," Sam said, rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes.

The Impala was stopped someplace not very near anything else, at some dark hour so late (or early) even the goblins, harpies, black dogs, and ghosts were probably asleep.

"You don't even know what I want to do yet." Dean's eyes widened innocently.

"Whatever it is, no." Shifting forward in his seat, his stiff muscles grateful for the movement after hours of sleeping with his head leaning against the window, Sam peered out through the windshield.

Across the road rose a chain link fence protecting a fleet of snow plows, and beyond that gleamed the dark ribbon of the river. On the fence was a sign, red lettering on a white background, easy to read in the glow of the floodlights: _Rock Salt Storage Facility - Dept. of Sanitation._

"You wouldn't," said Sam.

Next to him, Dean also leaned forward, eyes flicking over the trucks. Sam's stomach jumped with dread.

Okay, maybe a tiny bit of anticipation -- whatever happened, it probably wouldn't be _boring_. But mostly dread.

"We could go to Walmart like normal people and _buy_ rock salt..." he began.

"...using a fake name on a stolen credit card..."

"...and oh, here's an idea, not get arrested."

But Dean had the driver's side door open and was sliding out of the car, tucking his keys into the back pocket of his jeans.

The brick wall of the industrial building Dean had parked the Impala against was too close for Sam to open his door, so he slid across the bench and climbed out after Dean.

"It's right there. I mean, it's right there." Dean gestured towards the storage shed. "A mountain of rock salt. City's not going to notice a few pounds missing out of a few thousand tons." Despite the chilly night, Dean seemed comfortable in his gray t-shirt and no jacket.

Tugging on his flannel shirt, shivering a little in the wind that scurried off the water, Sam tried to think of a good reason not to. Except for _possible incarceration_ , he couldn't come up with one. Not that possible incarceration wasn't a really good reason not to, but that possibility had never stopped Dean before. "This is crazy." Sam glanced behind him at the Impala. "Let's get back in the car and keep driving."

"Aw, c'mon, Sam." His brother jogged in place, all bottled-up energy like a boxer in the ring. "It might be fun. More fun than going to Walmart." He stopped jogging. "We scoop the salt into a couple of bags, throw them back over the fence, load them in the trunk, and we're gone. Take half an hour, tops. And we'll have about a few hundred pounds of rock salt. C'mon." He smacked Sam's arm, then went over and popped the trunk.

Dean rummaged until he found two laundry bags, still folded and in their original packaging. There was no point at all in reminding Dean they'd bought the bags for _laundry_ , not for stealing rock salt from the sanitation department of a large coastal city, but what the hell, what part of their lives got to stay in the same zip code of normal?

He dimly remembered Dad pulling something like this once, with Dean on lookout while Sam knelt in the back seat watching, feeling the car dip as Dad hefted the bags into the trunk.

Sam caught the bag Dean tossed at him, wondering if this had been premeditated, or if Dean had spotted the storage facility at a distance and turned off the main road on a whim.

"It'll be fine, Sammy. Stop being such a girl."

For a moment, Sam smelled smoke and monster gunk.

They crossed the poorly paved street, and Dean slowed his easy stride. He held out his hand, and Sam stopped. They watched the shadows in between the aisles of trucks, looking for a security guard, but the place was still, the only movement the ripple of the river and a plastic bag snagged on the fence, tugging in the wind.

They hit the fence at a run. Sam's fingers curled into the links, the laundry bag tucked into the back waistband of his jeans. The fence trembled beneath their weight before they dropped to the ground on the other side.

Coming up out of a crouch, Dean went to the massive pile of salt heaped under the shed and nudged it with the toe of his boot. The grains shifted with a dull sparkle in the feeble light. It was kind of impressive, seeing so much of it in one place. For Sam's entire life, salt was protection, salt was life. Before it was the thing you put on your french fries, it was the thing that held back the chaos.

Sam held the bag open while Dean scooped the grains in, working with brisk, quick movements, not messing around -- get the job done, get going. Sam was just starting to feel like maybe this wasn't the worst idea ever when light flashed in their faces.

"Stop right there."

Dean flung up an arm to shield his eyes from the light, salt trickling from his fingers, while Sam kept a convulsive grip on the laundry bag for lack of anything better to do. He blinked a few times against the glare, and finally made out the silhouette of a security guard with a flashlight, his gun still in his holster but his free hand hovering over it.

Dean put on an apologetic smile, the one that was supposed to mean _it's all a misunderstanding, we're going to laugh about this later over a beer, trust me_. "Oh, hey, easy there. We're with the sanitation department. Surprise inspection. We would have called ahead, but that wouldn't have been a surprise, would it?" He reached to pull his wallet out of his jacket. "I've got some ID right here..."

The guard fingered his gun. "Ah-ah. Hands where I can see them." He laughed. "Surprise inspection. Yeah, like I've never heard _that_ one before." He lifted the flashlight and thumbed the radio at his shoulder. Chin tucked down, he kept his eyes on them. "Mike, it's Al, I've got two live ones here."

"Jesus. Are you serious? Why would anyone break in there? Okay, hold 'em, I'll be right over," a voice that presumable belonged to Mike crackled back.

The guard shot them a self-satisfied smile. Whoever Mike was, he presumably carried the weight of authority, and the guard seemed to expect that he'd have their asses on a platter in moments.

Meanwhile, Dean had gone still in that particular way Dean had and Sam tensed, waiting for it. And there it was: Dean dropped, scooped up a handful of salt, and flung it in the guard's face. Then Dean leapt past Sam, down from the side of the rock salt mountain, running hard, and Sam bolted after him.

His own breath and the sound of their steps seemed thunderous. It wasn't until they skidded to a halt on the gritty cement that Sam realized that they'd headed towards the river. The storage facility ended in a low iron fence. Water flowed fast and dark below, the surface curling into eddies.

"Oh, you've got to be kid--"

But Sam didn't have time to finish the sentence before Dean grabbed his shirt, jerking him forward. There were shouts behind them, then the whoop of a squad car, a flash of red. Sam climbed up next to Dean, and they jumped.

* * *

"Okay, so maybe it wasn't my best idea ever." Dean dropped, shoulders slumped, onto a rock on the tiny beach. He grabbed the edge of his t-shirt and twisted it, wringing out the water.

Across the river, lights twinkled along the shoreline, and Sam heard the rush of cars above them. The pilings of a half-crumbled pier would make it at least possible, if not easy, to get back up to street level from the beach.

"No shit." Sam wrinkled his nose, wondering how polluted the water was. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt, took it off, wrung it out, then put it back on.

"You all right?"

"Fine. Cold, wet, and contemplating ways to kill you in various painful ways, but otherwise, I'm peachy!"

"Guess we're going to Walmart, huh?" Dean sounded disappointed, like a kid who'd been told he couldn't go to Great Adventure because he had to clean his room. "Unless we tried again at another..."

"Dean!"

His brother turned. "What?"

"Shut up." But he said it softly.

* * *

The stink of the river was still in his hair, even after a scalding hot shower and generous amounts of shampoo and soap. Sam lay in the darkness of the motel room, staring at the shadow pattern the headlights of passing cars tossed against the ceiling. In the other bed, Dean was already asleep, his breaths deep and even. He'd let Sam have the shower first, a peace offering. Even so, Dean was still asleep before him.

Every time he closed his eyes he heard the rattle of the chain link fence, felt it sway beneath him, saw grains of rock salt glimmering, sensed the cold water of the river around him, the tug of the strong currents working against his body as he swam. This wasn't the way it felt after a hunt, exhaustion devouring him as he struggled to forget. There'd been no monsters, nothing he had to try to block out of his mind.

Maybe that's why Dean did stuff like this once in a while, why he'd always mouthed off to his teachers for no particular reason, why he liked roller coasters, grisly horror movies, loud music, and going over the speed limit. It was the kick of adrenaline without the burn of terror and blood.

It bugged the hell out of him when Dean pulled shit like this, it really did. Except maybe the twist Sam had felt in his gut wasn't mostly dread after all.

Okay, but they were going to get their rock salt from a store like everyone else.

Maybe.

In the darkness, Sam grinned.

~end


End file.
